Imprinted
by agrajagthetesty
Summary: It was not that they had left an impression on the hotel, she now knew, but simply that they had imprinted themselves on her. Wherever she went, whether they were with her or not, she would see them. Oneshot. Vaguely AlWin.


**Imprinted**

She stood helpless in the hotel room, motionless, watching him as he walked away from her for the thousandth time, his pace steady, not hurrying but not hesitating; and for the thousandth time she didn't know whether to shout abuse, collapse on the floor and cry, or run after him and fling her arms around him, begging him not to go. In the end she did nothing, finding herself incapable of movement, only able to stand rooted to the spot, fists clenched, watching him head into danger again, as an indescribable feeling welled up in her chest.

She knew that he was only going to help his friend and to discover more about what had happened to Mr. Hughes. He had told her this. She could hardly ask him not to get into this fight, she knew that- it would be hypocritical, as she would always support any endeavour that could lead them to more information on the murder of her friend. In fact, she would be entirely willing to throw herself headlong into the fray as well if it came to it, as long as it would help that cause. She would never be able to, of course- the thought of how horrified they would all be at the mere idea was enough to assure her that her being willing to fight, while noble, would make no difference to her being left behind- and she wasn't entirely convinced that she would be of help anyway.

The thought, however, was certainly there. She would be willing, if it came to it, to put everything on the line for the sake of those she loved- both living and dead. So she could not entirely blame him- stronger than her, and used to the lifestyle- for taking the opportunity to help the cause.

No, it was the being left alone that pained her. Waiting, and waiting, and hoping, that was all she did, all the circumstances would enable her to do; and she cursed it bitterly. Feeling as though she could do nothing, _knowing_ that she could do nothing- there was nothing worse than that. She hated weakness and being powerless, and she hated the knowledge that there were no other possibilities even more than that. If she felt that something could have been done to change the situation, she could perhaps have been able to put up with it for now, but the sheer impossibility of everything- her conflicting wishes- made it unbearable in every way.

If only she could work out the way she felt. She hated waiting for him- hated waiting for them both- but she had the feeling that she would hate it even more if they did nothing to find out about Mr. Hughes' death, or simply accepted their misfortunes and surrendered to the cruelties of life. She felt like tearing her hair out in frustration.

And then there was the added factor that their work and their search were dangerous- more so, even, than they let on. She was concerned at the explanations they gave her of their travels; but the knowledge that there was still so much more that she didn't know about, and the conviction that the details they left out would doubtless be still more worrying and dangerous than the ones they did mention, were enough to make her well and truly frightened. Her imagination, when set loose, was grisly and voracious, and there was often nothing she could do to prevent it from conjuring up disturbing images of what the holes in their narratives could possibly entail. As if what they _had_ said didn't make her anxious enough. . .

She groaned, knowing full well that now her mind had set off on this track, she would never be able to relax until she saw him again; and fell backwards onto the bed, hands over her face, trying to prevent the imagined scenes of what could await him from creeping across her closed eyelids. The window was still open, the curtain flapping in the wind, which was getting stronger and chilling her as she lay there. She could feel goose bumps creeping across her pale bare limbs, but there was no way that she would close the window. It was the exit he had left the room by. If she closed it, there would be no guarantee that he would return.

If she didn't move, he would come back. If the room stayed the same as it had been with him in it, he would come back. If she thought constantly of him, he would come back. If the window was open, he would feel her wishes and all would be well.

But she found it increasingly difficult to base her useless hopes on these things, and the window banged open and shut in the wind.

---

Later. So much time had passed, but she wasn't sure the world had moved at all. She had left the bedroom, unable despite herself to keep still for long. She had moved listlessly through the corridors of the darkening hotel, and anyone she saw had seemed shadowed and hollow. She walked from room to room, but wherever she went she was presented with images of them, memories of the time they had spent there, as if they were so bright that they still left afterimages burned onto the building, even now, when he was fighting, dying for all she knew, and his brother had been whisked away on some other, most likely just as crazy mission. She had closed her eyes and shaken her head hard, trying to dislodge the pictures she saw, but it did no good and she was still tortured with the slightly wavering but crystal-clear reminders of the two of them wherever she looked.

Eventually she had gone outside and walked around town in a hopeless attempt to calm herself and leave the images behind her.

Now she sat, worn out and motionless, on the steps outside the hotel, exhausted by both her walk and by the constant assault of her memories, even when she went to places she knew they had never been to. It was not that they had left an impression on the hotel, she now knew, but simply that they had imprinted themselves on her. Wherever she went, whether they were with her or not, she would see them.

It was so long since he had gone. The steps were made of stone, and very cold.

She was barely aware of herself any more, barely able to sort out her feelings into coherent thoughts. Her whole self was focused on the thought of that window in the bedroom, which she had propped firmly open before leaving. She had moved, and things in the room had changed since he had gone, but the window was open and everything would be okay. She seized on this phrase, the only one that made sense to her jumbled brain, and repeated it mindlessly, surrounding herself with it inside and out.

She didn't know how long she sat there before she heard a sound from out of the darkness. By now, after so many times when she had jumped up in a sudden burst of hope at any noise, she was almost too crushed by disappointment to raise her eyes.

Almost.

He stepped suddenly into the lamplight a distance away from her, in terrible shape, parts of him missing, the front of his helmet gaping black and open in a horrible smile; and she leaped to her feet, outraged, relieved, made desperate with concern. "Idiot!" she shouted.

And then, as an afterthought, "Welcome back!"

_Author's notes: Based on chapters 38 and 39 of the manga. I just loved Winry's reaction when Al came back, so I had to write this. __I hope that everyone managed to work out who "he" was before the penultimate paragraph, by the way; they might have been needlessly concerned if they thought parts of _Ed_ were missing._

_Well, I'm not so happy with this one- it seems really long to me- but I'll publish it anyway, since it's one of the few fics I've written based on a specific event. It's not as AlWin as some of my other stuff, but it really happened, so it all balances out. :D Enjoy!_

_Reviews make me distribute free love and puppies to the populace._


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